Heart of the Ronin (12 page)

She knew that she would not die. She was not in hell. She would live. The wound would heal, but the agony would never die.

Eight

Black, desolate moor . . .

I bow before the Buddha
 

Lighted in thunder

—
Kakei

Yasutoki dozed in the shaded confines of his palanquin. The late afternoon sun warmed him and made him drowsy. Vague dreams of thundering hordes of barbarian horsemen tearing through fields and towns flitted through his mind. The barbarian hordes plowed through the lines of samurai, casting them aside like chaff. The visions of the dreams shifted to a scene of villagers marching in parade to the clang and rhythm of gongs and drums. The noise of the parade grew louder and louder, until Yasutoki realized that the noise did not come from a dream, and his awareness slid back into wakefulness. The noise was real. He rubbed his eyes and listened. It did indeed sound like a parade, and he could hear the happy chanting as well. Had his entourage encountered some sort of local festival?

He ordered his bearers to stop and called out to his chief bodyguard. “Captain Yamada! What is going on?”

Captain Yamada, a broad, muscular warrior with a barrel chest and blockish head, approached the palanquin and bowed. “It is a parade, my lord. We have met them at a crossroads. It looks like over a hundred villagers. They are carrying something on a pole. And it looks like they have a prisoner.”

“A prisoner? Why would a parade be leading a prisoner?”

The parade was growing nearer, with several villagers carrying gongs and drums, beating them with great enthusiasm. When they drew within a few dozen paces, Captain Yamada walked to the fore of Yasutoki’s procession and stood in the middle of the road, fists on his hips.

“Halt!” Yamada called. He would brook no disrespect from peasants. “This is the procession of Otomo no Yasutoki, Chamberlain of Lord Otomo no Tsunetomo! What is going on here?”

The parade halted, milling about for a few moments. Yasutoki peered out of the palanquin and observed the procession. At the fore of the parade was a large man wearing the rough clothes of a farmer, carrying a long pole. Atop the pole was a strange object. Yasutoki’s eyes narrowed as he studied the object. A skull. But unlike any skull he had ever seen. Twice the size of a human skull, bulbous and misshapen, blackened as if by fire, with huge cracked tusks and three scorched horns protruding from the forehead.

Its shape was somehow familiar to Yasutoki.

He listened as Captain Yamada spoke to the peasant who stepped out of the throng.

The peasant said, “Honored sir, please do not let our celebration detain you. I am Koji, headman of Maebara village.”

“Why are you celebrating?” Yamada asked.

Koji pointed up at the skull on top of the pole. “For years, the bandit oni Hakamadare has terrorized this province.”

At the sound of the oni’s name, Yasutoki started. He knew that name well. He compared the charred, battered skull to his memory of the oni chieftain’s dark, rough face. The three horns on the forehead were distinctive. It had been a fearsome creature, but also clever and resourceful, just as the human bandit known as Hakamadare had been so long ago. And it succumbed nicely to the allure of wealth, like most people. Yasutoki had a great deal of hidden wealth, thanks in part these days to the oni’s occasional collaboration. Once, he had hired the oni to slaughter a recalcitrant merchant who had too many political connections to be killed openly, one who stubbornly resisted Yasutoki’s offer of an illicit “partnership.” The oni and his gang had simply stormed into the town of Hakozaki during the night, set fire to the merchant’s opulent house, and butchered everyone who came out. On another occasion, one of the governor’s high-ranked retainers who had grievously insulted Yasutoki at a party disappeared without a trace on a journey to the capital. The oni had been a useful tool on many other occasions. Yasutoki and Hakamadare had forged a mutually beneficial relationship. The oni had provided Yasutoki with a ruthless club to enforce his will on the Hakata underworld, and Yasutoki had provided the oni with all the sake, gold, and tender young flesh he craved. Hakamadare had had his own strange sense of honor, and Yasutoki would miss his services. But how could such a creature have been laid low?

Koji continued, “Now, he is dead, and all of his henchmen with him! Except for this one.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the bound, wounded man being dragged along near the rear of the procession. “He survived the battle that slew his master.” The man’s clothes were caked with dried blood, and his face was a shapeless mass of swollen bruises. His arms were lashed to a log tied across his shoulders, and one of the villagers tugged at the rope tied around the man’s neck. A crude, blood-soaked bandage covered the truncated length of his right forearm.

“How was the oni slain?” Yamada asked.

“A woodsman from Uchida village says he saw the whole thing. He says he helped a wandering ronin kill the oni.”

“A ronin?” Yamada said. “What was his name?”

“His name is unknown, but he is said to have saved the life of a noble maiden, even though her entire entourage was slaughtered in the attack.”

“And wayward noble maidens just wander these woods? Who was she?” Yamada’s voice grew more skeptical.

“The woodsman said she was the daughter of Lord Nishimuta no Jiro.”

Yasutoki started. How . . . interesting!

This coincidence was not lost on Captain Yamada, either, who paused and glanced back at Yasutoki’s palanquin.

The villager continued, “We villagers of Maebara heard what had happened, and we decided to help those from Uchida clean up the mess from the battle. The ronin had burned the oni’s body to ashes and took off with the Nishimuta maiden. All that was left was the beast’s skull. There is talk that the ronin was carrying the lady’s wounded hand-servant, but not all the stories are the same. Even stranger still, the ronin matches the description of a man who murdered the constable of Uchida village the previous day.”

“This ronin must be a dangerous man. Has anyone tried to find him? The murder of a constable is death sentence,” Yamada said.

“A young deputy from Uchida village is trying to track the ronin down, but no one has seen him.” Then the villager’s voice grew dark and spiteful. “Five years ago, the oni and his gang came to my village and stole four women and fifty sacks of rice, burned five houses, and killed my brother. People from all over the land should be celebrating the oni’s destruction, not hunting the ronin for some other offense! He is a hero!”

Yamada nodded. “Of course. The land has been freed from a great evil. What do you intend to do with the prisoner?”

Koji’s voice grew contemptuous and menacing again. “We are taking him to Dazaifu to stand trial. A quick death is too good for the likes of him!”

Yasutoki called from the palanquin. “Captain Yamada.”

The stocky samurai approached him.

Yasutoki kept his voice quiet so that only Yamada could hear. “I wish to speak to the prisoner.”

Yamada bowed sharply, then turned back to Koji. “Bring forth the prisoner!”

Koji bowed and obeyed, motioning the other villagers to bring the prisoner forward. The prisoner stumbled and nearly fell as one of his guards jerked savagely on the rope around his neck. He gasped and choked, but kept his feet as the guard hauled him before Yasutoki’s palanquin. Yasutoki regarded him through a gap in the curtain. Yamada stood close, ready to protect his master.

The prisoner seemed to regain some of his senses and tried to peer into the palanquin’s dim interior.

Yasutoki said to the prisoner, “Tell me of this ronin. Cooperating now may ease your death.” Yasutoki did not recall this man, but from his wounds, he was all but unrecognizable.

The man licked his swollen lips with a bloody tongue, and his voice came out in a croak. “I did not see him. I fell before he came. When I woke up, the fire was burning and everyone had gone.”

“What fire?”

The prisoner tried to peer deeper into the palanquin. “The fire that destroyed my master’s body.”

“Who was your target?”

“It was the procession of some noble, a Nishimuta.”

“Why did you attack?”

“My master heard that the Nishimuta maiden was beautiful and wanted her for himself. We waited near the road in ambush for them to come.”

“No one hired your master?” Could the oni have been working for one of Yasutoki’s rivals?

“No. . . .” The prisoner stopped speaking and peered again into the shadows of the palanquin. Then recognition dawned in his eyes, and he whispered, “It’s you!”

“Yamada! Kill him!” Yasutoki hissed.

Instantly Yamada drew his sword and slashed. The gleaming blade sliced into the log across the prisoner’s shoulders, and the prisoner’s head tumbled forward onto the road. As the body collapsed like a limp rag, Yamada jerked his blade out of the log.

Koji jumped forward, eyes wide. “What happened? Why did you kill him?”

“He attacked me,” Yasutoki said smoothly. “He was a madman, and serving the oni made him evil beyond redemption. Unfortunate that his death was so swift, but it could not be avoided.”

Koji stared at the twitching corpse pouring blood into the dirt and the severed head nearby. Yasutoki watched the tumult of emotions cascading through Koji’s features. Shock, horror, dismay, disappointment, and perhaps disbelief.

“You could not see clearly what happened. The prisoner went mad and threatened my life,” Yasutoki continued, attempting to reinforce his wishes with the astonished villager. “You may report these events to the magistrate in Dazaifu.”

Koji swallowed hard and nodded. “I will see to it, honorable lord.”

“Very good, Koji.” Yasutoki paused for a moment to let the headman know that his name would be remembered. “After my procession has passed, you may continue your celebration.”

Koji bowed deeply. “Thank you, my lord. It has been my privilege to speak to you. Thank you for dispatching our prisoner for us.”

“It was nothing. Now, out of the way.”

“Yes, honorable lord. Right away!” With that, Koji ran back to his place with the other villagers, and they all moved to the side of the road, prostrating themselves.

Yasutoki gestured to Yamada. “Let’s get moving.”

Yamada bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

Leaving the corpse on the road, Yasutoki’s procession resumed its travel. What was the fate of the ronin and the Nishimuta maiden? The only Nishimuta maiden likely to be traveling through this area would be little Kazuko. What a strange coincidence! Some strange shift in fortune was at work. But what had happened to her? And what about the ronin? A man who murdered a constable then saved a noble maiden from a horrible fate? Could they be the same person? If Kazuko was harmed, her father’s wrath would a spectacle. Yasutoki’s impression was that Nishimuta no Jiro worshipped his daughter and she him. When he had first met Lord Nishimuta, he had filed this bit of information away for future reference. He was always looking for such bits, so that he might use them later to twist situations to his advantage.

His thoughts returned to his own loss of advantage. He had been robbed of his most useful henchman. That vexed him. Then he had a flash of inspiration. Perhaps this ronin would make a suitable replacement! Ronin were well known for their flexible morals, and this one sounded like a fierce man indeed. And the murder of a Nishimuta clan samurai sounded like useful material for blackmail, if the man proved stubborn. He must be found, and quickly. Yasutoki must know more about him, another thing he must see to when he reached Dazaifu this evening. And he knew where to begin looking. The ronin might arrive at Lord Nishimuta’s estate at any time, if his intentions were truly to see the girl to safety, and that was the perfect opportunity. Yasutoki was going there himself in a few days. If the ronin meant to spirit her away for himself, however, then Yasutoki would have to cast a wider net.
 

What a strange day.

Nine

Beautiful lady

Buffeted by rude spring winds . . .

What sweet storm you make

—
Kito

Around mid-afternoon, the sun was too warm, and Kazuko was sweating inside layers of embroidered silk robes. Her light silk undergarments clung to her skin. She wished she could just remove her heavy outer robes, but that would not be proper. Ken’ishi had already seen too much of her, and the thought of how his gaze had been fixed on her, how his eyes had blazed so fiercely, moving up and down, filled her with embarrassment. Removing her heavy robes had been necessary at the time; she couldn’t move freely while wearing them. Hatsumi would not approve if she knew how much of Kazuko’s body Ken’ishi had seen. Kazuko guessed she must have looked like a simple peasant trollop, clad in only her undergarments. Hatsumi often corrected her when she skirted the edges of decorum and etiquette. Sometimes it was a game, with Kazuko trying to see what Hatsumi would let her get away with. Kazuko sometimes enjoyed throwing Hatsumi into a state by acting improper, but it was only a game. She would never do anything purposely to hurt Hatsumi’s feelings.

She remembered how she had felt with the naginata in her hand, facing the oni, all but naked. She had felt . . . free. And alive. She remembered the thundering of her heart, the balanced weight of the naginata, and the determination to do whatever she could to live. Although she would never admit it to anyone, she had felt free from the restrictions of class and society, free of the weight of too many clothes and responsibilities and obligations. All those trappings of life had seemed so meaningless when her torturous death was standing over her with a tetsubo in its huge hand. She wondered if that was what it felt like to be a man, like Ken’ishi. Society placed so much emphasis on the willingness to die, especially samurai. This willingness to die was expected of samurai women as well. Before now, she had never truly considered what dying meant. Her spirit would go on and be reborn, she knew, but to die. . . . Was she a bad person, because she had wanted so badly to live?